Light A Mourner's Candle
by Beatrice Otter
Summary: The Archprelate finds a chaplain for Maia.


**Written for:** bethynyc in Yuletide 2019

**Betaed by:** Gammarad and Samson

* * *

Maia had attempted to meditate for, oh, a long time, the night before, and had achieved nothing more than frustration and greater nerves than he had had when he started. His disquiet was stupid, and he _knew_ it was stupid. Whatever cleric the Archprelate had chosen would surely count it a great honor to be appointed the first chaplain an Emperor of the Elflands had had in several generations, and would court his favor. If the chaplain the archprelate found for him displeased Maia in any way, it would be a simple matter to have him replaced. Maia would not even have to tell him directly, merely ask Csevet, and Maia need never see him again.

Maia took hold of his thoughts as firmly as he could. _It is absurd to assume that thy new chaplain will displease thee before thou hast even met him,_ he told himself. Archprelate Teru Tethimar had supported Maia since his coronation, and been kind to him, and was a man of intelligence and devotion to his calling, from everything Maia knew of him. Even were he a man of worse character than he seemed, he would not wish to squander the opportunity of placing a cleric so highly in the Untheileneise Court. Everything would go well. Maia should not assume trouble before it happened.

And yet, Maia was painfully aware that his religious training had ended at the age of eight, with his mother's death. What he knew had sustained his mind and soul through all the endless petty cruelties of Edonomee, but it was paltry indeed compared to what an adult ought to know.

It was fortunate that his day was as busy as always, and so he had little time to dwell on the matter. The Archprelate had sent word the day before that he had selected a chaplain and asked when would be convenient to make the introduction; Csevet had suggested a time the next day where a previous appointment had been cancelled. And so Maia had had little time to fret.

The Archprelate was punctual, and brought the prospective chaplain with him.

Maia scarcely noticed the formalities of greeting and introduction, so surprised was he at the chaplain's appearance. Archprelate Tethimar had promised a cleric experienced in the Barizheise rites; Maia had not expected an _actual Goblin_. But no, given his bone structure and his name, there must be Elvish in him; he was merely very dark-skinned. _The Ethuveraz court will whisper about thee, and thy goblin superstition, and thy hobgoblin soothsayer_, Maia thought, and the voice in his head sounded very much like Setheris.

"Mer Dulcar," Maia said, his voice sounding thin in his own ears. "We thank you for your service."

"The honor is mine, Serenity," Mer Dulcar said with an accent as smooth and polished as any elf.

The Archprelate then gave a listing of all Mer Dulcar's qualifications and history: degrees from the university here in Cetho and a seminary in Barizhan that was apparently quite prestigious, posts in prestigious Othasmeires in both Barizhan and the Ethuveraz. Commendations and recommendations from people he had served as spiritual director for, or given counsel to, some of whose names Maia recognized as important personages. He seemed to have been a very busy man.

At last the Archprelate finished his presentation of Mer Dulcar's credentials and took his leave, sweeping out with Csevet in his wake, and Maia was alone with Mer Dulcar and his nohecharei.

Maia knew that, as Emperor, it was his privilege and duty to begin the conversation, but he could not think of a single thing to say. _Cat got thy tongue, hobgoblin?_ His internal monologue had not sounded so much like Setheris in many months. But then, Setheris had always been particularly harsh when it came to Maia's practices of religion. He had learned to speak as little about his spiritual practices as possible, but that habit would be broken today.

"So, Serenity," Mer Dulcar said, when Maia did not speak. "I am at your disposal. I know you wanted a chaplain familiar with the Barizheise practice, but is there any particular aspect that you wish further guidance in? Or anything you would like to discuss, anything weighing on your heart? I am, of course, bound by oaths of silence; I may not share anything you tell me with another, unless you give me leave to do so."

He was probably trying to make Maia more at ease by using the informal first person to refer to himself. If Maia were even a hair less on edge, it would probably be welcome. "We … we do not know what it is exactly a chaplain does," Maia said miserably, acutely aware that he had not had to expose his ignorance before a stranger so nakedly since his first day in the Ethuveraz, when Csevet had had to explain all his correspondence to him. Even during those first few weeks with the Corazhas, he had had Csevet's explanations to give _some_ context.

Mer Dulcar shrugged. "A chaplain can do many things, depending on what it is you want and need, Serenity. Theological education and discussion, performance of private rites, spiritual and moral guidance and coaching, counsel for the heart and mind, training in the spiritual disciplines: these are the more common aspects of a chaplain's duties."

Maia nodded when he paused, to show he was listening. "All of those sound … acceptable," he said cautiously, overwhelmed by all the possibilities he had been longing for. They were more than acceptable, and were it not for Setheris's iron training he could not have maintained his composure. His gut was churning, and it was no little frustration that he could not sort out what he felt, or whether he wanted to laugh or cry.

"Are there any that seem particularly pressing, to you?" Mer Dulcar asked.

Maia shook his head helplessly. "We … do not know enough to know which is most pressing," he said at last.

"Mm," Mer Dulcar said. His face was open with compassion, and his ears had not so much as twitched at Maia's ignorance, for which Maia was deeply grateful. "Well, then. Perhaps the best place to start is by telling me about yourself—what training and spiritual formation you have received, what practices and disciplines best suit you and which do not, and what experiences you have had in matters of religion."

"When I was a child in Isvaroë, I prayed and meditated with my mother," Maia said. "As I grew older, we spent a great deal of time in the Othasmeire, as my ability to sit still increased." He bit his lip. It had also been because, as his mother's health worsened, there was little she could do _but_ sit and meditate, but he could not bring himself to share so personal a detail with a person he had just met. He realized he had slipped into the informal first person without realizing it; intimacy on Dulcar's part prompting a like intimacy of his own.

Yet it seemed somehow right, to use a child's pronouns and informality when discussing his childhood. In any case, Mer Dulcar showed no shock at Maia's intimacy. "Ah," said Mer Dulcar. "And I would imagine that even now, when you meditate, you feel close to her."

Maia felt his cheeks warm and blessed his dark coloring. "I know that such sentimentality is not what meditation is _for_, and I should not—"

"Serenity," Dulcar said gently, "it does not make your meditation less profound, or less devout, to have such a motive. There is no harm in it, and if it nourishes your soul in other ways besides the ineffable, so much the better. We do not exist only for the gods' sake, and neither do our meditations."

Maia stared at him, mouth open, aware on some level that he looked every inch the moon-witted hobgoblin Setheris had so often named him, and yet not able to care. "It was the only thing of our mother that we could keep," he whispered, "besides a pair of earrings she had given us. All the rest of her things—and our things—were taken from us when she died, and we were sent to Edonomee."

"Oh, Serenity," Dulcar said, face open with … pity? Compassion?

"And then at Edonomee, our cousin Setheris who had charge of us … was much of our father's opinion of religion in general and the Barizheise forms of it specifically," Maia said. "He wished us to cease what he called superstition."

"And in so doing, took away your connection with your mother," Dulcar said softly. "Serenity, that was very cruel of him."

"Yes," Maia said, blinking back tears. He had always _known_ Setheris was cruel, of course; how could he not? And yet, he had always known, too, that his opinion of it did not matter, and few would agree with him. But here was affirmation of the sort he had dreamed of, when a lonely, heart-sick boy at Edonomee.

He could not keep back the tears, and they spilled out of him against his will. Blinking, he stared up at the ceiling, struggling for composure. He had not cried at his mother's funeral, so why, now, so many years later, could he not manage the same restraint?

"Serenity, may I hold your hand?" Dulcar asked.

Maia nodded, not trusting his voice, and clutched at the cleric's hand when he was offered it. They sat there, in silence, as Maia's tears trickled out. Dulcar's hand was warm in his, and he gently stroked the back of Maia's hand with his thumb. It was … soothing, and Maia was abruptly aware of how few people touched him, in the course of his daily routine. His edocharei might touch him briefly, lightly, in the course of dressing and undressing him, and he clasped hands and arms and shoulders with Csethiro in their dance lessons (and even, sometimes, put his hand at her waist for an eight-count), but this was different. There was no need or purpose to it besides comfort, and he found that meant more to him than he could put words to.

When Maia was done crying, he found that Cala had crept up beside him and laid a handkerchief on the table for him.

"Thank you," Maia said, taking it, using it as much to hide his face as to dry his tears. What a fool he must have looked! But his nohecharei were on his side, and, if not friends, at least trustworthy and non-judgmental; and Dulcar did not seem to hold it against him, either.

"I should ask," Dulcar said when Maia finally looked back at him, "whether you wish to speak Ethuverazhin or Barizhin. I do not imagine you have many opportunities for speaking your mother's tongue."

"I— We do not know it," Maia said. "Our mother was forbidden from teaching us of her homeland."

Dulcar took in a deep, slow breath, and let it out. "Serenity," he said at last, "if you wish to learn, I can teach you."

Maia twisted the handkerchief in his hands. "I think … I would like that," he said.


End file.
